


What Has It Got in Its Pocketses?

by Irrealia



Series: Tumblr Ficlets - Bagginshield Edition [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Poor Bilbo, cute old husbands, that fucking ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/N: Written for the following prompt by <a href="http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com/">@pangur-pangur on Tumblr</a>: </p><p>“Thorin’s armor and robes have got so many pockets and places for stuffing things that he often mutters and grumbles and pats himself down in the morning looking for his reading glasses, official seals, Mirkwood Treatises –</p><p>“But Bilbo always knows exactly which pocket they found their way into, and is an excellent, efficient frisker :3</p><p>“Sad corollary: Bilbo doesn’t appreciate Thorin touching his pockets.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Has It Got in Its Pocketses?

Bilbo stands on tiptoes and presses himself flush against Thorin, nimble thief’s hands stealing through layers of clothing and into a pocket on the inner right side of Thorin’s tunic. He delicately tugs out a pair of glasses, and then gently balances them on Thorin’s nose, nicking a kiss as he disentangles himself from his husband’s clothes. 

“Thank you,” exhales Thorin, and the glasses magnify the crinkle in his eyes as he smiles down at Bilbo. 

—

Thorin leans over a table, squinting—clearly he’s misplaced his glasses again. “Beloved, do you know where—“ he begins to ask, but before he can finish the sentence, Bilbo is behind him, reaching into his surcoat and producing the seal ring that Thorin finds a bit too heavy to wear, but needs before he settles in for an afternoon of paperwork. And then with a wink and a playful grab of his arse, Bilbo leaves him to it, headed in the direction of the kitchens. “And your glasses are in the upper right pocket of your tunic!” he calls down the hallway. “You always put them there, and you always forget.”

—

“Left vambrace,” says Bilbo, not even looking up from his tea whilst Thorin fumbles about, looking for the little knife he usually carries for useful tasks like… well, honestly, like opening letters. The morning post is next to the tea and pastries. Lo and behold, the little bejewelled dagger is exactly where Bilbo predicted, and he tugs it out gratefully, turning the first letter in the stack over in his hand and flicking the blade under the heavy wax seal to open it. Bilbo smiles up at him then, having caught the runes on the seal. “What’s the latest from Ered Luin? And when is your sister coming back?”

—

“What has it got in its pocketses?” croons Thorin at Bilbo, playfully mimicking the words of the wraith he had tricked in the goblin caves as he sneaks up behind him. In truth, Thorin means to use it as an excuse to wrap his arms around his beloved, and bury his nose in Bilbo’s soft and fluffy hair, but his husband only stiffens in his arms, and pushes Thorin’s hands off his waist (and pocketses) quite forcefully. “Not if my life depended on it, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo snaps. And Thorin knows from the fire in his eyes, and from the story he’s invoked, that Bilbo absolutely means it. His pockets are off-limits, even to his husband, even to his king. Thorin’s face crumples the tiniest bit as he steps back, but Bilbo stays stiff and unresponsive, even with the threat of Thorin’s playful mood removed. 

After a few tense, silent moments, both of them just standing there, Thorin leaves Bilbo alone and takes himself off to the bedroom. It’s only then that Bilbo’s shoulders droop and the tension leaves his body. One hand slips into the inner pocket of his dwarven tunic, caressing its contents. “Dratted dwarves and their lack of any decent notion of privacy,” he mutters. And then with a deep breath and a shake of his head, he pulls himself together and follows his husband to bed. 


End file.
